coffee in two mugs. Charles recognized it as the cheapest instant coffee that could be bought.
“Right,” said George. “Grab your mug, old man, and follow me through.”
When they were seated, he went on, “I do feel sorry for Crystal. All this scrimping and saving is getting to her.”
“You could get a job,” said Charles.
George goggled at him. “No one will employ me at my age.”
“You’re only … what? Forty-four?”
“Forty-five. And where could I work?”
“Tesco’s supermarket at Stow are always advertising for staff.”
“My dear fellow, can you see me on the till? Crystal would die of shame.”
“They need people at supermarkets to stack the shelves. Or what about these all-night garages? They’re always looking for someone. It would pay your grocery bills. Doesn’t your daughter help out?”
“Felicity has expensive tastes. T really don’t think she has anything left over at the end of the month.” “What is she doing again?” “Working as personal assistant to some couturier.” “Where?”
“In Paris, where else? Rue Saint-Honore.” “Which couture house?”
“You do ask a lot of questions. Thierry Duval. Have you seen his fashions? Weird. Saw them on the telly. And the way the models have to walk these days. Just as if they’d wet their knickers.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Last Christmas. She came over. Seems to enjoy the work.” “I’d like to see a photograph of her.” “What’s all this interest in Felicity? She’s too young for you, Charles.”
Charles’s eyes swivelled around the room and came to rest on a studio photograph of a beautiful blonde. She had been photographed looking straight at the camera and leaning on her hands, a la Princess Di.
He pointed. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Yes, so what? Honestly, old man, you’ve changed. Can’t remember you firing questions at one the whole bloody time.”
“Sorry,” said Charles and began to chatter lightly about people they both knew, lacing it with enough scurrilous gossip that George forgot about all those strange questions and looked sorry when Charles said he had to leave.
Agatha was lucky in that the police, sure that Harrison Peterson’s death had been a suicide, had not ordered an intensive forensic search of the room and the stairs leading to it. By the time they got around to it, the room and the stairs had been scrubbed clean and the room itself had a new tenant. She had been worried about their footprints on the stairs or a stray one of her hairs somewhere in the room.
Emma was being singularly sweet to Agatha that morning. Agatha must never guess what she, Emma, had planned for her, although she reminded herself from time to time that it was only a fantasy to dispel her jealousy and rage.
Charles came into the office during the morning and gave Agatha his report of Felicity Felliet. He had decided not to bother explaining to Emma why he was still around. “Paris, again,” said Agatha. “I wonder what she was doing the night of the party.”
“We could run over and ask her. Plane there, plane back. One day should do it.”
Emma dug her newly painted fingernails into her hands. The pair of them in romantic Paris!
“What about tomorrow?” asked Agatha.
“It’ll need to be the day after. I’m hosting the village fete at the house. Anyway, what now?”
“I think we should try to catch Bill Wong. See if he can tell us anything more. What are you doing, Emma? What about that missing cat, Biggies?”
“Just about to go out on it,” said Emma.
Bill Wong saw them in one of the interviewing rooms. “I hope you have something to tell me,” he said. “I’m not supposed to help private detectives.”
“We heard a rumour that Harrison Peterson’s death was murder,” said Agatha.
“Nothing’s in the papers yet,” said Bill. “Where did you hear that?”
“I can’t tell you that, Bill.”
“Then I can’t tell you anything either.”
“Probably because you don’t know anything,” said Charles.
“Look.” Bill surveyed both of them. “Wilkes happened to be around when I got the message that you wanted to see me. He told me to get rid of you, fast. On the other hand, I’ll be in the Wheat-sheaf at lunch-time.”
“See you there. Come along, Charles.”
As Emma trudged around the streets of Mircester, looking for the missing Biggies, she turned over what Charles had said that morning. He was hosting a village fete. She could mingle with the crowds and watch him and see if there was any other female he was interested in. She had read up on him in the local newspapers and learned that he had been married to a Frenchwoman and was now divorced.
It would be better fun than looking for this cat. Agatha had two cats. Emma was beginning to hate cats.
She turned into the street where Biggies’s owner lived. Emma peered over the hedge into the garden. Biggies was sunning himself on the lawn. She thought quickly. She knew the owner, a widow, Mrs. Porteous, would be out at work.
Emma opened the garden gate and pounced on the sleeping cat. She thrust it into the cat carrier she was carrying with her. She decided to take Biggies home with her. He could be considered missing for another day and that would give her time to go to the fete. It was amazing how many cat owners didn’t just wait for their precious animals to reappear.
She put the carrier with the now angry cat in the back of her car, which she had parked a few streets away. Then she wondered uneasily if Mrs. Porteous knew her cat had returned and had left it out in the garden while she went to work. Emma flipped open her address book and found the work number and dialled.
“This is Emma Comfrey,” she said. “Just to let you know we’re still looking.”
“Oh, bless you,” said Mrs. Porteous. Her voice became quavery. “I worry the whole time about him. I fear he might be dead.”
“There, there,” said Emma. “Em working all day long looking for him.”
Bill Wong had nothing to tell them that they didn’t know already. But they were able to tell him about Joyce Peterson’s violent partner.
“She didn’t tell us she was living with anyone,” said Bill. “We had a devil of a job tracing her. How did you catch up with her?” “Someone told us.”
“I wonder who that someone was. Anyway, you say this Mark is violent. What gave you that idea?”
“She had an enormous bruise on her cheek. She said she had walked into an open cupboard door, which is a battered woman’s variation on the theme of41 fell downstairs’.”
“We’d better check him out. Got a second name for him?”
“No, just Mark. He might have killed Harrison Peterson in a jealous rage.”
“I hope not,” said Bill.
“Why?”
“Because that would mean that we would still be left with the shooting at the Laggat-Browns. This Mark would have ho reason to want to kill the daughter. It’s one of those cases that’s going to drag on and on. I haven’t had time to do anything in the garden, and despite last night’s rain, it’s as dry as a bone. Do you think there’s something in this global warming business?”
Said Charles, “It was evidently as hot as hell in medieval times. Give it another hundred or so years and we’ll have another mini ice age.”
“What now?” asked Charles after they had said goodbye to Bill.
“Paris, I suppose. While you’re playing lord of the manor at your fete, I’ll take a day off and run up to London and take Roy out.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing some work?”
“I’ve got staff. Why keep a kennelful of dogs and bark myself?”
Emma’s face lit up when Agatha said she was going up to London to see Roy on the following day.
“Such a dear boy,” she said, and added coyly, “Give him my love.”
“Will do.”
